Cyrus knew quite well that the end was near. The constant pelting of missiles and fallen aircraft reminded him that life would soon be over; that all things cherished would be lost. He looked up into the ashen grey sky littered with fighter jets, and prayed. He prayed that all explosions would cease, and that there would finally be silence. He hoped that somehow, the past few months of constant warfare would abruptly end, but he knew better than to think of his desires as logical.
He began the dangerous walk down the street from the warehouse, pulling a large cart stacked with cardboard boxes behind him. His ever-thinning adolescent figure slumped over as he tried to protect himself from falling debris. Once he got out of the open area of the city-center, he knew he could make it to the housing district. Pausing momentarily to push his thick brown hair off his perspiring forehead, he saw a familiar little girl standing in the middle of the road.
“Lillian, what are you doing out here?” Cyrus asked, running toward the trembling child.
“I’m trying to find my Mom! She hasn’t been home since this morning, and Christopher needs to eat,” She shouted over the chaos, tears welling up in her deep blue eyes. Her father had been drafted months before, and Cyrus worried that she and her baby brother were now alone.
“We’ll talk about it later. Get on the cart!” He said, hurriedly lifting her up onto the high stack of boxes. He ran as quickly as he could to the alley across the street that would provide momentary shelter.
“I can take you back to your house after I deliver these supplies. I’ll stay with you and Christopher until your mom comes home,” he said, knowing that he may be living with the children for quite a long time.
He walked a few hundred more feet in focused silence. Avoiding the worst of the wreckage, he approached the gated apartment complex. Most families roomed together now in confinement, sharing the few tiny apartments that were still in decent condition. He keyed the pass-code into a mounted black keypad. Once he was through the gate, he could finally relax. It was rare for shrapnel to make it over the fence. He took the cart to the first level, and parked it by door number 1. After lifting a large box from the top of the stack, he walked towards the entrance.
“Don’t move, Lillian. Just stay there until we get to your house,” Cyrus warned as he approached the door crusted with peeling paint. He softly knocked.
“Who is it?” asked a quiet, cautious female voice from inside.
“It’s me, Cyrus,” He said, as the door cracked open, “I have some food for your unit,”
“Oh, thank you, child! God bless you. We’ve been running so low on rations lately,” she said, taking the box gratefully.
“How is Charlotte? Has she had the baby yet?” whispered Cyrus, knowing that his good friend was expected to give birth any day. It was quite a conspiracy, since childbearing had been strictly outlawed months before in the name of “infant protection”. Countless pregnant women had begun mysteriously disappearing, and eventually the government made an official statement concerning the matter. Flyers appeared everywhere in a street that warned that if one was found expecting a child, she would be taken to government headquarters and the situation would be addressed. They didn’t use the word “abortion” once, but what other option could there be? Cyrus was just thankful that Charlotte had made it undiscovered for so long.
“No, not yet. It’s really quite a pity though. The whole ordeal is just reminding her of Joseph,” Said the woman, contemplatively staring into blank space. Joseph was one of the millions of fathers who had been reported “gone for good” after failing to report back to military personnel for over a week.
“Tell her I wish her luck. Send word my way as soon as the baby is born; I can bring some diapers and extra blankets from the warehouse,” Cyrus said, nonchalantly backing up towards the cart again.
“I most definitely will. Thanks again!” She said, waving with one hand and holding the box with the other. She closed the door slowly.
Cyrus continued across the apartment complex, receiving warm gratitude from citizens both young and old. It pained him to see the little children, younger than Lillian, looking so anxiously into the box to see how much flour they got for the week. They were starving, their swollen, malnourished bellies protruding under their tattered shirts. He knew that delivering the little nourishment he could was all he could do, but Cyrus longed for them to be healthy again: Chubby and smiling, like before the madness broke out.
Lillian stayed quiet until they got to the 25th apartment.
“Here, Lillian, go into the bedroom and wake up Ada. She probably doesn’t even know you’ve gone,” said Cyrus, carrying the last box into the dimly lit room and setting it on the kitchen counter. He knew that every adult in the household was sick with the flu. It originated in the military bases, mainly from the unsanitary, tightly-packed conditions, but as ill soldiers occupied streets and other public places, the rapidly-morphing virus was quick to make it into many homes. Luckily, the children and high-risk patients were vaccinated a few months prior, after doctors realized how dangerous the flu could become, but there simply wasn’t enough medicine for everyone. So far, five deaths had been reported to be caused by the fever.
Christopher’s crib was across the living room. He whimpered quietly, longing for something to eat. Cyrus quickly paced across the room and picked him up, laying the squirming five-month-old’s head on his shoulder. He searched the food box for the small amount of powdered milk the house received, and upon finding it, prepared it in a children’s cup that presumably belonged to Lillian. It wouldn’t be ideal, but he would come back with a bottle and infant formula later.
“What are you doing here, Cyrus?” asked a very pale Ada, appearing from the bedroom.
“Lillian told me that her mother was gone. I found her looking around in the middle of the street at the combat zone,” Cyrus explained with an urgent, frustrated tone.
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Julie left this morning to find you. She wanted to get our tea rations as soon as possible today since we’re such a sick mess,” Responded the matronly woman, wringing her aged hands with worry.
“Well she never found me. I hope she’s alright. . .” he said, knowing perfectly well that there was little chance she was.
“I’ll stay here, though, until you and the others are better,”
“Thank you. Would you like me to take Christopher?” Ada asked, reaching out her arms.
“Yes, please,” he said, handing over the child and his cup. “I need to go to my place really quick to get some things. I’ll be back in a few minutes,”
“Be careful!”
“Don’t worry; I’ll be all right,”
Cyrus opened the creaky door. He walked into the chaos, hearing things detonate in the distance, destroying cars and buildings and other objects of little interest. As long as the people stayed inside, he thought, everything would be okay.
As he ran across the street on the way to the volunteer’s quarters, he passed some colleagues loading barren body bags into a green truck. He couldn’t do the job because it required more emotional stability than he had to offer, but he respected the bravery it took these men to care for the dead. Dreading a thought that instantly crept into his mind after viewing such a scene, he approached his acquaintance, Dr. Jacobs, who stood by with a clipboard.
“Who was it this time?” Cyrus shouted over the commotion with a shaky voice.
“Are you sure you want to know? It’s quite tough news for a twenty-one year old to handle,” Said the solemn Dr. Jacobs, a look of grave concern in his eyes.
“Please, just tell me,” Cyrus begged, predicting the worst.
“Martin Ashworth, age fourteen, and Julie Hudson, age thirty. Both killed by a low-grade missile dropped from an Israeli jet,” He read from his clipboard.
“Are you sure?” Tears had already begun flowing.
“That’s what the database says. It’s a shame, isn’t it? The boy was on his way to the drafting office. We’re not quite sure about the woman,”
“That woman was a mother of two young children,” Cyrus responded, looking down in disgust. How could this happen? How would he tell Lillian that her mother was found dead on the streets? He darted off, shaking his head with despair.
After walking the few dangerous blocks to the quarters, he paced to his crowded bedroom filled with cots. He grabbed his backpack and a few blankets. He didn’t linger, because as much as it hurt, he would have to go back and tell Ada what had happened.
He left the house as usual, but was immediately struck by a heavy blunt object. It had fallen hundreds of feet, and although it missed his head, the hit to his back was enough to knock him over.
“Aurrgh!” He exclaimed, convinced that he was a goner. Perhaps the fate that would soon plague all had finally reached him. He laid in the street in shock.
Within seconds, he realized that he was safe despite a throbbing dent in his shoulder. Without wasting any time in this vulnerable state, he stood up to see what had hit him. He was surprised to see, lying by his feet, a metal cube. It looked like some sort of container.
While there was a chance that it was in fact a dangerous explosive, he decided that it would be worth examining later. He picked it up and threw it into his mostly-empty sack. Continuing back to apartment 25, he braced himself to tell the wretched news.
“Ada, I need to speak with you,” he said as soon as he opened the door. Placing his bag by a dusty couch in the living room, he motioned towards the kitchen.
“What is it, dear?” She said, putting Christopher down next to Lillian, who was playing with a doll on the floor.
“It’s about Julie,” he said in a very deep, hushed tone. Ada immediately stepped into the kitchen.
“Did you find her?”
“Well, yes,” he answered, an obviously pained expression appearing on his face.
“She isn’t – Oh dear, she couldn’t be. . .”
“It was an Israeli missile, dropped this morning. It killed her and a fourteen year-old boy,” Cyrus muttered, speaking softly not only to protect Lillian from the news, but to hide his own weeping.
“Dear, God. She was only trying to help us! Those fools, how could they take the life of an innocent woman like Julie? She never hurt a person in her life,” She whispered, her face suddenly taking on a rosy hue.
“She isn’t the only one. A Chinese grenade took out Martha Goodman three days ago,” He said, remembering the tragic accident. The woman had left home to get medicine for her twin daughters, who were stricken with 106 degree fevers. The vaccines didn’t work every time.
“I can’t believe this. It can only get worse from here on out, I’m sure of it. In no time, we’ll all be gone. Those foreigners have no right to break into our country and kill us,” she lamented, flustered and quickly losing composure.
“Our own troops are just as guilty, Ada,” He said, eyeing Lillian in the next room, who was gently patting Christopher’s head.
“What are we going to tell the child?” inquired Ada, also watching the innocent little one.
“Perhaps it would be best to wait a bit. If the big attack is coming like they say it will, what’s it worth to upset her?”
“I suppose you’re right,” She said, pushing a lock of soft silver hair behind her ear with a trembling hand.
. . . . .
That night, Cyrus lay awake. His mind was racing, searching for any bit of hope he could muster. He begged God for guidance, to show him anything he could do to restore peace in the world. There was nothing left to live for, no happy summer afternoons, no lazy days at the park. Just fear.
Suddenly, a loud knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Not wanting to wake the others, he got up off the couch and peered through the window.
“It’s Jane,” said a soft voice from outside. Cyrus opened the door, preparing to ignore the bright flashes that would surely loom on the dark horizon.
“Is this about Charlotte?” he asked, seeing excitement in Jane’s eyes.
“She had a beautiful baby girl about thirty minutes ago,” she said, watching a smile creep upon Cyrus’s face, “I was told you could provide some supplies?”
“Yes, yes of course. Come with me,” He said with a newfound happiness.
After leading the way to the dark warehouse across the street, Cyrus took out his key and unlocked the front door. They took what they needed and were soon on their way to apartment number one. The same woman he met earlier was waiting for them at the door.
“She’s beautiful, you have to see her!” she beckoned towards the bedroom.
Cyrus opened the door, peering in to see Charlotte, clearly exhausted but beaming with joy, lying on a bed in the center of the room. In her arms was a tiny bundle that peacefully slept.
“Cyrus, I’m so glad you’re here,” said Charlotte, momentarily looking up from her daughter.
“How are you doing? I hear she’s beautiful,” He said, walking towards the bed.
“Oh, she is. Come and have a look. Would you like to hold her?”
“Of course.” He gently reached out his arms to embrace the warm little person.
He sat down on a nearby cot, and stared lovingly at the sleeping face before him. This baby had no idea what kind of a time she was born into. She didn’t know about the dangers of leaving her home, and she didn’t worry that she might not make it ‘til tomorrow. She wasn’t troubled by the pressures of the world that threatened to take away life, and showed no signs of contempt towards her thousands of “natural” enemies. Cyrus longed for that same innocence to wash over him, but it was too late. He’d seen far too much.
After a brief visit, Cyrus wished the little family well and walked back to the other side of the complex. As soon as he arrived at Ada’s, he made a bottle for Christopher, who was convinced that everyone had forgotten about him. Rocking the child on the couch, he hummed a solemn lullaby his mother used to sing to him, and soon both boys drifted off to sleep.
. . . . .
Cyrus awoke early the next morning to an urgent thought. While he would have rather slept another hour, curiosity soon got the best of him and he placed Christopher back in the crib. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out the box that struck him a day before. His shoulder had been aching ever since the incident, but there was so much going on that he had almost forgotten about this curious object.
At first glance, the box looked quite ordinary. It was a cube of about six inches, and was quite heavy. He’d guessed it was probably made of high-grade steel, which had recently gone into short supply. He examined the box with great interest, hoping it held something worthwhile.
“Well what do we have here?” The voice startled Cyrus, who forgot there were five other people living in the apartment. Luckily, it was just Ada and not Mrs. Richardson, who would have certainly thought the unfamiliar item to be something planted by Russian spies.
“Oh, well – I . . . I don’t really know,” he said, looking up with a sheepish smirk.
“Where did it come from?”
“It’s kind of a funny story,” he said, embarrassed that such a small article had actually knocked him off his feet. “It sort of fell from the sky as I was walking here yesterday,”
“Interesting,” she inquired, her lips pursed, “Are you sure it’s not dangerous?” she was still quite shaken by Julie’s fate.
“As far as I can tell, it’s just a really heavy container. I don’t know what it means, but I figured it was worth opening to find out,”
“Ah. The plight of a curious young mind. Well, how about we take a look?”
“It looks like we’ll need a screwdriver. One of the old-fashioned Phillip’s heads,” he said, examining a tightly screwed-on clasp that would presumably free the lid when loosened.
“Old fashioned, huh? We used them all the time when I was growing up. I’ve got one in the closet,” she said, mildly offended that Cyrus had the nerve to use such a term around her.
“Sorry, Ada. I just forgot that you’ve been around that long. You act as if you were forty years younger,”
“Such a charmer, aren’t you?” she dug through the closet for a few moments. “Here, I’ve got it,” she handed the tool to Cyrus.
“Thanks,” he placed the point into the opening and turned it carefully. Perhaps the contents really were dangerous.
Within a few seconds, the screw fell to the ground.
“Are you ready?” he asked, adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins.
“Always,” she responded confidently, staring at the box with intent.
He lifted the lid and it flipped back on its hinges. An unexpected puff of liquid nitrogen vapor drifted up from the tightly sealed container. Once it cleared, an unmarked envelope was visible.
“What –?” He quietly remarked, surprised to see the simple item after such a dramatic lead.
“I have no idea, but you better read it, son,” Ada urged. Her emotions were complicated; unsure and fretting, yet urgent.
“Okay, I will,” he said, not quite knowing if he should be worried or excited. This could be nothing, or it could be something; something important. It wasn’t normal to find messages in steel boxes that fell from the sky, and he had a feeling that this wasn’t just a friendly note.
When he lifted the letter, he felt an odd sensation in his fingertips, almost as if his nerves were trying to prevent him from touching the document. It was folded in half, and quite thick even after being flattened out. He pushed under the corner with his index finger, sliding it across the remainder of the adhesive.
His clammy hands lifted the flap to find two pieces of paper. He pulled out the smaller of them first, eyeing it with curiosity. It appeared to be a small work of art, though it wasn’t familiar to him.
“Do you know what that is?” Ada questioned with fervor.
He examined the picture. It was a very simple sketch of a bird in flight, carrying a twig in its beak. There was a somewhat familiar signature on the bottom, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“It’s from my grandparent’s days, back in the 1950’s. They had a framed copy of it on their mantle when I was growing up, and I always thought it was so beautiful in its simplicity. It’s Picasso’s Dove of Peace. The dove carrying an olive branch has signified peace since Noah’s time! It’s quite curious to find something so nostalgic in times like these,” She pondered, clearly excited about receiving such a message. Nothing could have prepared her for what came next.
“It’s truly wonderful. We still have the letter to read, though,” He said, handing the dove to Ada and pulling out the note.
He read for but a moment, and he knew that this was something extraordinary.
“Ada, look at this,” he said, his eyes widening. She leaned over as he held out the paper.
It read:
Dear public of the twenty-first century,
We are aware that these times are not easy on you. The constant rumbling of clashing weaponry outside your doors is certainly not a prospect of hope, is it? One should never need to fear for his life while walking down the street, and innocent people shouldn’t be killed due to untimely encounters of war as so many already have.
To those of you who have lost loved ones to these cold hands of warfare, may you be at peace. We are writing now to inform you that this too shall pass. If it is in fact the year 2093, the last gunshot in this quarrel will be fired within the next three years. It may seem impossible, but please, please have faith. Don’t give up on the future, and remain strong despite your ever-increasing doubt.
Rejoice and love your fellow man, for tomorrow, peace shall reign and the sun will shine brightly upon your people again.
With love,
Those who made it to 2156
“Good God,” Ada’s hand fell over her gaping mouth as tears began streaming down her face.
“I don’t know what to say,” muttered Cyrus. “Do you think it’s real?”
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,” she affirmed, staring at it with a smile of such incredible relief.
“Sometimes, you just know,” and she reached over, wrapped her arms around the boy’s shoulders, and planted a reassuring kiss on his unsuspecting forehead. He didn’t seem to mind.
. . . . .
Three days later, Cyrus made his way to the warehouse, this time carrying a small work of art in his pocket. The constant blasts no longer fazed him, for he knew that they weren’t forever. He went to the printer and made twenty-five copies of the tranquil dove. As he delivered the rations that morning, he was sure to share the emblem of hope with all who would receive it.
The children, he noticed, had the greatest understanding of what this all meant. They knew, quite plainly, that the horrors of the world they lived in were only temporary, and that the doves would soon arrive, carrying olive branches from trees across the earth.
Once back at Ada’s, Cyrus looked at Lillian with an unfortunate sadness. All the hope in the world wouldn’t bring her mother back, and he knew someone had to tell her. After he consulted with Ada, the three sat on the couch. Lillian sat in Ada’s lap, and she could clearly tell that something was going on.
“Lillian, there’s something we need to talk about,” said Cyrus, looking up at Ada to make sure he was doing this right. He tried to stay composed.
“It’s about my mom, isn’t it?” she asked, a look of seriousness upon her face.
“Sweetheart, your mom was hurt very badly the day she left,” said Ada, clearly choking up.
“She went to heaven, Lillian,” Cyrus offered, reaching a hand to the child’s soft, feathery hair.
“I was wondering if that was what happened,” she replied, looking over at the nearby crib. “Who’s going to take care of Christopher?”
“Oh, honey. That’s what Cyrus and I are here for. We’re going to take care of you and Christopher as long as you need us,” she assured the concerned little girl.
“I miss my Mom, Auntie Ada. Will I ever see her again?” the little girl asked in a small, timid voice, beginning to shed tears.
“Of course you will. Your mom is watching out for you every day, and loves you very much,” Cyrus said, as he got up to fetch the last copy of the dove. “Why don’t you keep this? It means peace. Your mom is at peace now, living with God,”
“Thank you,” said Lillian, wiping her eyes and taking the paper.
Cyrus felt a deep relief. It wouldn’t be easy for this child to make her way through life, but he knew she could always find peace if she knew where to look. Beyond the troubles and violence that overtook her young and innocent life, was hope.
. . . . .
And so it seems that in fact, the world would be saved. No one could say exactly how or when the fighting would end, but they all knew for certain that from the piles of rubble littering the streets, a promising future would soon be born. A beacon of mercy would shine down upon them, and peace and tranquility would be restored again in the fullest.
As for the oblivious infant sleeping in the corner, he would one day take it upon himself to join his scientific colleagues in writing a letter; one that, breaking the bonds of time and space, would surely bring the public of the twenty-first century to their knees in utter gratitude.
Life is full of hard times and good times. Lift your chin up, Ladies and Gentlemen.
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